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Nobody who knew anything about him would believe he’d walk away from this gig with Sky Masters without a darned good reason.
    Still thinking about that, he slid the last few feet down the ladder from the XF-111 simulator and dropped lightly onto the hangar floor. The massive Hexapod system’s huge hydraulic jacks towered above his head.
    â€œWell, shit, look who’s been hogging the sim again, guys,” a voice jeered from behind him. “It’s Boy Bomber Jock McLanahan and his trusty sidekick, Ego Fricking Mania.”
    Brad spun around.
    Deke Carson and two other Sky Masters test pilots were about twenty feet away, loitering near the control consoles that ran the simulators. Carson, the biggest of the trio, leaned back against one of the consoles with his arms folded and an unpleasant sneer plastered across his face. His two friends, slightly smaller and lighter but wearing obnoxious smirks of their own, hovered at his elbows.
    Brad’s eyes narrowed. Mostly he got along pretty well with the fliers who worked for Sky Masters and with the other professional pilots who flocked here for advanced training. Carson and his cronies were the exception. They’d been riding him all summer.
    Carson was the worst. Like many Air Force pilots, he’d been “involuntarily separated” from the service in the last round of budget cuts. Sky Masters was retraining him to fly big commercial jetliners, but he was still pissed off about losing his military career. And eventhe sight of Brad McLanahan was like waving a matador’s red cape in front of a bull. Knowing that a kid, and a civilian kid at that, had more flight time, even time in space, and real-world combat experience than he did struck the former Air Force captain as proof that politics and family clout counted for more than talent and training.
    â€œDid you cut the power to my sim, Deke?” Brad snapped, moving toward the other men.
    Carson raised an eyebrow. “ Your sim, McLanahan?” He snorted. “Last time I looked, you were just a jumped-up broom jockey with a big mouth. Or did somebody in corporate promote you to CEO because you did such a good job cleaning toilets?”
    His two friends snickered.
    Encouraged, Carson unfolded his arms and stepped right up to Brad, crowding inside his comfort zone. “Look, Bradley McDumbshit. These guys and me . . .” He nodded at his cronies, “We’re paying the freight here, to the tune of ten thousand bucks apiece per goddamned month. And we’re getting sick of seeing you waltz around like you’re God’s Own Aviator. Hell, you’re not even a nugget. You’re just a little piece of crap with delusions of grandeur.”
    â€œI’ve paid my dues,” Brad said tightly. “I’ve flown enough to—”
    â€œBull,” Carson interrupted. “The only reason anyone’s ever let you sit in a cockpit is because your dad, the late and totally unlamented General McLanahan, knew how to kiss political ass in Washington, D.C., and corporate ass here at Sky Masters.”
    For a moment, Brad saw red. Then he breathed out slowly, forcing himself to regain self-control. He had nothing to gain from getting into a fight with a dick like Carson. Three years ago, losing his temper with an instructor had gotten him bounced out of the U.S. Air Force Academy in the middle of cadet basic training. Though he’d never said so, Brad knew that was the one time he’d genuinely disappointed his father.
    â€œNothing to say, McLanahan?” Carson asked loudly. His sneer grew deeper. “I guess that’s because you know it’s the truth.” He glanced at his friends, saw them grinning in encouragement, and swung back to Brad. “Hell, the only other thing you’ve got in common with your dad is the nasty habit of getting other people killed for your own goddamned glory! How many people were left sucking vacuum when you